I spent the remainder of my break seething and remembering.
I met Ray when I was rookie police officer. My partner, Ralph, and I were the first to arrive at the scene of a brutal homicide. A neighbor had heard fighting, the sound of breaking glass, and the woman yelling, "No, no, please don't." The woman's boyfriend was prone to violence, so the man didn't check. He called us instead. It was a good move on his part. The boyfriend carved the woman with the jagged edge of a broken booze bottle, then finished the job with a kitchen knife. When we arrived, he had fled.
We secured the scene, roping off the entrance, outside walk, and part of the yard with yellow crime scene tape. A crowd formed. The media monitored the call on police scanners, so we had a TV crew to deal with, too. That kept us occupied until the sergeant and the detectives arrived. Ralph entered the apartment to see if the victim was alive. It was a one-room studio. I saw everything from the door.
After the detectives took control of the scene, we collected names and apartment numbers from the neighbors, asking what they had seen or heard. We had plenty of help and finished in a couple hours. Later I leaned against our patrol car, remembering the scene and trying not to lose my dinner. Ray approached me and said supportive things, helping me come to grips with my feelings.
He called me the next day to check on how I was doing. His compassion impressed me. One thing led to another, and soon we were an item. After about six months, we started to talk about marriage.
Then Ralph and I stopped a speeder going west on Sample Road. Departmental regulations didn't allow us to give chase, but it was late and the sergeant gave permission. The creep killed Ralph and shot me. I was luckier than Ralph. The shaft of my right femur shattered at the point it bends to become the greater trocanter—the thighbone part of the hip joint. My pelvis broke when I fell, and I had a belly wound. The result was a lot of my blood in the street, making the perpetrator think I was as dead as Ralph, whom he shot between the eyes.
Ray stuck by me when I was a patient in ICU, while I fought a raging infection, and as I struggled with an extended rehab. When I left the hospital to go back to North Dakota to recover my strength, he said he was moving on. He didn't offer an explanation, and I didn't ask for one. I had sensed it was coming, but I've wondered a lot about it. What seemed clear during the aftermath of the trauma didn't seem clear any longer.
I opted for nursing school rather than returning to the police force. On occasion, we drifted together then drifted apart again. The reconnection always centered on a case relating to the hospital or something medical. As a nurse, I was in a position to access behind-the-scenes people and events. When I was on the force, he respected my judgment despite my inexperience. I sometimes worried a problem to its solution—a cop's genes, or a nurse's.
The last time we cooperated on a case, the guard injured the fish in the mall. He got a kick out of picking things for me to try on and then seeing me wear them, so we'd gone shopping. After he split, my wardrobe suffered as much as I did. I missed the closeness we once shared.
I threw the last of the Danish in the trash, followed by my half-full coffee cup, arriving on Five East in time to see Jamel and his friends shuffling into Hutchinson's room. I retrieved some medication from the Pyxis, a medication cabinet resembling a computerized cash register, and followed them.
Amelia sat in the corner near the window with an open book on her lap, glaring at her son. "You should have come alone," she said.
"I did. Early. I came back." Jamel approached his mother while his friends hung back. He appeared sullen, his eyes downcast.
"I thought you were working."
"I didn't have to. I showed up late, and they
I met Ray when I was rookie police officer. My partner, Ralph, and I were the first to arrive at the scene of a brutal homicide. A neighbor had heard fighting, the sound of breaking glass, and the woman yelling, "No, no, please don't." The woman's boyfriend was prone to violence, so the man didn't check. He called us instead. It was a good move on his part. The boyfriend carved the woman with the jagged edge of a broken booze bottle, then finished the job with a kitchen knife. When we arrived, he had fled.
We secured the scene, roping off the entrance, outside walk, and part of the yard with yellow crime scene tape. A crowd formed. The media monitored the call on police scanners, so we had a TV crew to deal with, too. That kept us occupied until the sergeant and the detectives arrived. Ralph entered the apartment to see if the victim was alive. It was a one-room studio. I saw everything from the door.
After the detectives took control of the scene, we collected names and apartment numbers from the neighbors, asking what they had seen or heard. We had plenty of help and finished in a couple hours. Later I leaned against our patrol car, remembering the scene and trying not to lose my dinner. Ray approached me and said supportive things, helping me come to grips with my feelings.
He called me the next day to check on how I was doing. His compassion impressed me. One thing led to another, and soon we were an item. After about six months, we started to talk about marriage.
Then Ralph and I stopped a speeder going west on Sample Road. Departmental regulations didn't allow us to give chase, but it was late and the sergeant gave permission. The creep killed Ralph and shot me. I was luckier than Ralph. The shaft of my right femur shattered at the point it bends to become the greater trocanter—the thighbone part of the hip joint. My pelvis broke when I fell, and I had a belly wound. The result was a lot of my blood in the street, making the perpetrator think I was as dead as Ralph, whom he shot between the eyes.
Ray stuck by me when I was a patient in ICU, while I fought a raging infection, and as I struggled with an extended rehab. When I left the hospital to go back to North Dakota to recover my strength, he said he was moving on. He didn't offer an explanation, and I didn't ask for one. I had sensed it was coming, but I've wondered a lot about it. What seemed clear during the aftermath of the trauma didn't seem clear any longer.
I opted for nursing school rather than returning to the police force. On occasion, we drifted together then drifted apart again. The reconnection always centered on a case relating to the hospital or something medical. As a nurse, I was in a position to access behind-the-scenes people and events. When I was on the force, he respected my judgment despite my inexperience. I sometimes worried a problem to its solution—a cop's genes, or a nurse's.
The last time we cooperated on a case, the guard injured the fish in the mall. He got a kick out of picking things for me to try on and then seeing me wear them, so we'd gone shopping. After he split, my wardrobe suffered as much as I did. I missed the closeness we once shared.
I threw the last of the Danish in the trash, followed by my half-full coffee cup, arriving on Five East in time to see Jamel and his friends shuffling into Hutchinson's room. I retrieved some medication from the Pyxis, a medication cabinet resembling a computerized cash register, and followed them.
Amelia sat in the corner near the window with an open book on her lap, glaring at her son. "You should have come alone," she said.
"I did. Early. I came back." Jamel approached his mother while his friends hung back. He appeared sullen, his eyes downcast.
"I thought you were working."
"I didn't have to. I showed up late, and they
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